


Light the Fuse

by Ragazza_Guasto



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bisexual John, Blow Jobs, Coming Out, Demisexual Sherlock, Dominant John, Fluff, Forehead Touching, Inexperienced Sherlock, M/M, Masturbation, Miscommunication, Mostly Smut, Smut, but definitely some fluff too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-24
Updated: 2015-05-24
Packaged: 2018-04-01 01:42:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4001164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ragazza_Guasto/pseuds/Ragazza_Guasto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John finds himself unexpectedly being reprimanded for denying being in a romantic relationship with Sherlock. The resulting conversation unveils unknown information about the nature of John's sexuality. Sherlock promptly loses his mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Light the Fuse

**Author's Note:**

> I was given a prompt on Tumblr: _Dear wonderfully talented author, *gets on hands and knees begging* Might you please please consider writing something with John being the one all growling and predatory with lust and easily picking up Sherlock and fucking him on the desk???_  
>  This is the sort of answer to that. I couldn't seem to get them to full on penetrative sex, and technically most of this happens on the kitchen table, but hopefully this isn't a deal breaker. Thank you so much for the prompt, it was an excellent kick in the pants!

“Oh, enough already!” Sherlock snapped, shocking everyone in the vicinity. “We get it, you’re not gay. Does it really need to be said _every time_ someone even hints at you being anything other than my business partner or flatmate? It’s like working with a parrot. ‘I’m not his date’”, he squawked, dramatically John thought. “‘He’s not my boyfriend’, ‘We’re not together’. Christ, John, nobody _cares!_ And anyone who does doesn’t matter! Your heterosexuality is well established, can we stop the redundant corrections once and for all? You know, some people might actually find your vehement denials offensive, did you ever think of that? Hmm?”

 

Everyone, including John and the man he’d been subtly chatting up when Sherlock had heard John correct the man’s assumption, had gone silent and just stared.

 

When he didn’t receive a response, Sherlock turned tail and marched off.

 

Lestrade cried out, “Oi! We’re not done here!” but Sherlock kept walking towards the road, hailing a cab and disappearing before anyone could do much more than blink.  

 

“So,” the brother-in-law drawled, one eyebrow up in disbelief, “ _not_ your boyfriend then?”

 

John sighed. “No. But, uh, I think-” He fidgeted on the pavement.

 

“Yeah, you’d better,” the man agreed, waving John forward with a familiar smirk.

 

John touched base with Lestrade, promising he’d get the details from Sherlock and pass them along, before marching at a quick clip after his infuriating flatmate.  He’d steadfastly ignored the twinkle in Sally’s eye as she’d nodded along to John’s words to Greg. Sergeant Donovan always had been waiting for a domestic to blow up at a crime scene, and Sherlock had finally delivered. Perhaps if Sherlock hadn’t seemed so personally invested in John’s perceived hetero status, Sally wouldn’t be biting back an ‘I-told-you-so’ grin.

 

And just what the hell _had_ got under Sherlock’s skin?

 

~*~

 

Back at the flat, John found Sherlock frozen at the kitchen table, eyes glued to his microscope with the rapt attention most men would give a striptease.

 

John snorted at the thought as he tossed his coat over the back of his chair. He faced the doorway, casually resting his shoulder against the jam, and studied his flatmate. It was clear Sherlock knew he was there, was pointedly ignoring him. John figured the direct approach was best.

 

“So you want to explain what the hell that was about?”

 

“Nope,” Sherlock immediately replied, gravel-deep voice brooking no arguments.

 

As if John cared.

 

“Too bad.” He pulled out a chair and sat. “You've obviously taken an issue with something,” he hedged, unsure about addressing the elephant in the room quite yet, “and I think you would feel better if you talked to me about it.”

 

John received an indirect sneer, the knob of Sherlock’s microscope was twisted roughly, but Sherlock didn’t reply, just continued to stare into his eyepiece. It was a bit like seeing a dog who’d got into the rubbish bin stick his head under the sofa, and John reminded himself that he was dealing with an emotionally stunted man-child with a over inflated case of self-importance - a fine line to walk when dealing with serious, emotional topics such as these.

 

“I mean, it’s not like I really care, you know.” John waited but Sherlock didn’t give any sign that he was listening other than a twitch of his shoulder. “You think it bothers me what people think about me, but, honestly, it really doesn’t. I couldn’t care less.”

 

He got a snort and a mumbled sarcastic, “Clearly,” from Sherlock at that.

 

“Sherlock, I deny us being a couple because we aren’t one. You are notoriously adamant about keeping people away, so it’s to be expected that people that know you would assume I was the exception, but... I’m not.” Sherlock’s mouth opened but nothing came out. He snapped it shut and continued to sulk, so John went on. “I just don’t want people to get the wrong idea. I have enough trouble getting and keeping dates as it is, if I stopped correcting the assumptions it would be impossible.”

 

Sherlock let his hand fall with a thump onto the table and finally turned to look at John with a sceptical eye. “You expect me to believe it’s nothing to do with you defending your heterosexuality?”

 

John snorted. “Absolutely not.” Before John could process the weight of the words - perhaps he was just high on having successfully pulled the wool over Sherlock’s eyes for so long -  he whispered, “Christ, you really don’t know, do you?”

 

Sherlock frowned. That nose scrunch that John adored appeared, signalling Sherlock’s confusion, meaning he’d not stop until John confessed to all. His heart gave a lurch but some part of John felt like it would loosen a knot that had formed in his stomach, one that had sat heavy ever since he’d lied at Angelo’s that first night. John felt secure in his standing with Sherlock now, he could confess all and not worry he’d be on the street with the next breath; that their friendship could withstand the confession.

 

“Sherlock, I’m not... I’m not straight.” He stared down at the table but when no response came he looked up.

 

Sherlock simply stared back. John waited through several rapid fire blinks, Sherlock’s surprise apparent in the otherwise blank canvas. The man eventually licked his lips and muttered, “That doesn’t- No. How could- But you never…”

 

“Date men?” John guessed. “Not recently, no. No thanks to you. I was actually trying today, if you couldn’t tell.”

 

Sherlock’s head tilted, clearly trying to understand. Part of John was delighted to have Sherlock so wrong-footed but another, deeper level was terrified that Sherlock wasn’t giving him a lot to work with in terms of his opinion on the matter.

 

“I assume this doesn’t change anything, right? I mean, you don’t care that I-”

 

“I don’t believe you.”

 

John’s heart stopped. The words were so deadpan John wasn’t sure of their meaning, but the numb feeling of his fingertips suggested they be taken in anger.

 

“I’m sorry?” John whispered.

 

Sherlock stood up suddenly, John following on his heels, turning to watch Sherlock pace into the sitting room, hand in his hair.

 

“You’ve said on exactly fourteen separate occasions, in six different ways, that you’re not gay.”

 

John shrugged. “I’m not.”

 

Sherlock stopped and cocked his head. “Bisexual?”

 

John gave a sharp nod, hands behind his back. If he had to quantify, he’d say it was a seventy-thirty split with a leaning towards women but it wasn’t like that mattered.

 

Sherlock sneered again. “Semantics,” he mumbled to himself and continued pacing.

 

 _What the hell was his problem anyway?_ John wondered. He was probably just mad that John had fooled him for so long. John hoped anyway.

 

Sherlock continued to pace and mumble as John skirted him to hang his jacket up properly. He walked back to the kitchen to set about making tea, a distraction until Sherlock was done… whatever it was that he was doing.

 

The kettle had just beeped when Sherlock snapped, “Prove it.”

 

John’s eyebrows rose, and he turned, incredulously asking, “Excuse me?”

 

“I don’t believe you. Prove it.”

 

John stared him down, hoping the first thought that popped into his head hadn’t just written itself across his face. “And how-” He had to clear his throat before trying again. “How would I do that exactly?”

 

Sherlock waved a hand in the air in exasperation. “Obvious. Witnesses.”

 

“Oh,” John chuckled despite himself. “You want me to rally some ex’s together to give testimony?” He shook his head and laughed again. “You’re ridiculous.”

 

“Quit making tea! This is serious!” Sherlock stomped his foot.

 

John pursed his lips in amusement as he stirred sugar into Sherlock’s cup. He tried to imagine calling any of his previous ex’s and asking for detailed reports of his blow jobs. Sherlock taking notes on technique… He giggled again.

 

“No, Sherlock, I’m not going to do that. It’s an invasion of their privacy, to say nothing of mine,” he said with a raised eyebrow.

 

Sherlock seemed to think on this for a second before crying out in triumph. “Because they don’t exist! You _can’t_ prove it.”

 

Sherlock’s cup was set down with a thunk, sloshing tea off the side and onto the tabletop. John leaned against the door jam again, casually sipping from his still scalding cup, all the while contemplating the best way to get his flatmate’s neck in his grasp.  

 

“All right.”

 

“All right?” Sherlock repeated, incredulous. “You’ll do it?”

 

“Call my ex’s? No,” John answered, setting his tea down to grab his phone out of his coat pocket. He ran through his contacts until he found the right one and hit send, thumbing the speakerphone option so Sherlock could hear the conversation.

 

“Johnny?” Harry answered, sounding understandably confused. He hadn’t called her on an occasion that wasn’t a holiday in years.

 

“All right, Harry?” He gave a cursory greeting before jumping right in. “I’ve got a question, do you remember the name of the first bloke I ever kissed?”

 

Harry gave a great put-upon sigh. “You know, I do have a life. I’m not just sitting around, waiting on my little brother to call and ask me stupid trivia about his own life.”

 

“Just answer the damn question,” he snapped. She _always_ did that.

 

“Ugh. It was Jeremy Norway.”

 

John blinked down at his phone. “What? No it wasn’t, it was Rami Nahiri.”

 

“No,” Harry drawled. “Rami was the first official ‘I’m-kissing-a-boy’ kiss, but you kissed Jeremy Norway during Easter dinner at the Community Center when you were six. Remember? Mum started crying, ‘Oh, my son’s a poof’, and dad had to drag us all out to the car with everyone watching.”

 

John wracked his brain, only coming up with a ginger, green-eyed boy with bright freckles across his nose, keeping all the chocolate eggs for himself until John agreed to smooch him proper. The rest, thankfully, was a blur.

 

“Hmm,” he hummed, eventually conceding, “I suppose that counts.”

 

“Course it does. Now, are we done, or do you want me to remind you about your first suck-job too?”

 

John laughed. “You don’t even know about that.”

 

“William Guzman, twelfth form, after Rugby practice.”

 

John hung up on her, finger smashing the ‘end call’ button hard. He looked up at Sherlock for the first time, knowing full well his face was bright red. Sherlock looked like he might be ill, face paler than usual, eyes glassy, which superseded John’s embarrassment.

 

“Sherlock…” He set his phone down on the coffee table and walked forward but Sherlock mirrored the steps backward. John stopped, his chest aching like he’d been punched in the sternum. Any enjoyment he’d gotten out of proving Sherlock wrong was wiped clean, in its place a shaking terror.

 

“You… lied to me,” Sherlock whispered the accusation, brow furrowed in disbelief.

 

John was already shaking his head before he responded. “No, Sherlock. I never said-”

 

“You _lied_! Don’t you dare say a lie of omission isn’t still a lie!” Sherlock was raging mad, his fists balled at his sides, limb shaking.

 

“Are you _really_ going to lecture me on lying, in any of its forms?” John retorted, voice clipped low, dangerous now.

 

“I- This is important. You’ve purposefully misled me-”

 

“I thought you knew!” John snapped. “I thought you’d figured me out months ago, were just being polite, letting me get away with denying it.”

 

One condescending eyebrow went up. “ _You_ thought _I_ was being polite?”

 

John frowned. “When you put it like that…”

 

“This is absurd.” Sherlock tugged on his hair in frustration, turning away to pace some more.

 

John lost the little bit of restraint he had left and stomped after him. “Why does any of this matter? What do you care that I didn’t come clean before? It’s not like everyone knew but you. I don’t exactly like to advertise it. Harry knows because we were two queer kids in a religious house growing up, that’s it. You’re not _really_ mad that you didn’t figure it out sooner, are you?”

 

Curls whipped as Sherlock turned quickly to bellow, “No! I’m furious you’ve wasted this much time!”

 

John stared blankly, unwilling to misinterpret that statement in his excitement. A crack appeared in the dam he’d built months ago, despite his resolve.

 

“What are you saying, Sherlock,” John spoke low, “and be clear because I’m an idiot.”

 

Sherlock turned fully towards John. John couldn’t help but note the strain on those hundred quid buttons as Sherlock huffed.

 

“It’s like you said, I don’t let anyone close. Just. You.” He waited for John to respond, and when John couldn’t he went on. “If you can’t figure out what that means, you really are an idiot.”

 

John snapped and charged forward.

 

They slammed together onto the kitchen table, John’s arm barely managing to sweep Sherlock’s equipment out of the way before he landed on top of his flatmate. Sherlock let out the sexiest surprised growl John had ever heard when he smashed their lips together, the vibration traveling straight from Sherlock’s mouth down into John’s pelvis. He caught John around the waist and pulled him closer, practically squeezed the breath right out of John’s lungs. He didn’t mind one bit. Lovely way to go, that.

 

Sherlock’s lips were as lush as they appeared, not that John had dreamed of testing the theory… much.

 

“Do you… see… mmmm, what I mean?” Sherlock managed to get a few words out.

 

“Mmm?” John responded, more noise than question.

 

“This is all your fault,” Sherlock answered, before attempting to capture John’s lips again.

 

John, in a fit of dark emotion, reared back, eyes glaring with what he assumed was clear malice. Sherlock didn’t care, or seemed not to care, that he was enraging a man who had a hand wrapped so near his windpipe.

 

“My fault?” He growled.

 

“Yes! You and your constant denial forcing me to keep quiet when I’ve been full to bursting with this, this, this… emotion!”

 

“Oh?” John licked his lips, tasting Sherlock there. “So when I was chatting you up that first night, and you were explaining that you didn’t do relationships-”

 

One of Sherlock’s hands came up and slapped at John’s shoulder. “For god’s sake, John, that was months ago! I barely knew you then!”

 

Fury, both at Sherlock’s accusations and at his agreement that they’d wasted months of possible snogs and late night shags, had John clasping Sherlock’s wrists in his grasp, had him slamming them down onto the table and pinning them above Sherlock’s head as he crashed their lips together again. His tongue went exploring, welcomed warmly into Sherlock’s mouth; perhaps not expertly, but that hardly mattered to John. In fact, the evidence of Sherlock’s inexperience only seemed to fuel John’s lust. Proof that Sherlock wanted only John, it was a heady sensation.

 

“Is there a line?” John asked before he moved down toward Sherlock’s jaw line to suck hard at the long line of his throat.

 

“What?” Sherlock asked, barely a breath forming the word.

 

A bit of teeth were introduced briefly before John pulled away to repeat, “Is there a line? Because I won’t know until I cross it. I want everything, Sherlock, everything. Do you understand?” He forced Sherlock to look him in the eye with a hand to his chin. “Everything.”

 

Sherlock nodded, wide-eyed, but John wasn’t satisfied.

 

“Say it. I need to hear it.”

 

“No lines, John. I want everything too.”

 

With a growl, John dove back down, ripping at the expensive shirt collar, laving at Sherlock’s collarbone with ferocious intent. Sherlock cried out, tilting his hips up at John, seeking and finding John just as hard and ready. They both keened at the contact, crashing together with ill-timed thrusts, like two first-time teenagers - randy and inexperienced. In Sherlock’s case that might be accurate but John had no excuse; nothing but his eagerness.

 

“Oh, fuck.” John panted when a by-chance perfectly timed thrust hit just right. “I could come just from this, you brilliant, mad, perfect bastard.”

 

“John,” Sherlock drew his name out, long and needy.

 

“What do you know, I’ve rendered you stupid.” John grinned down at Sherlock’s look of affront, just before he kissed those insanely snoggable lips again. He pulled back again to whisper, “I want to show how very not straight I am. Can I do that?”

 

Sherlock panted hot air back at him but John didn’t receive an actual response. When he let go of Sherlock’s wrists to move down his long torso, and reached the clasp of his trousers, Sherlock’s eye widened in understanding. His head fell back against the table to slam a few times when John released his springing erection.

 

“No pants?” John teased. “You’re terrible. You should be arrested for crimes against humanity.”

 

While Sherlock teared haphazardly at his shirt, John pulled Sherlock’s shoes and socks off. He pulled the trousers down next and tossed the lot behind him carelessly; he didn’t think Sherlock cared about wrinkles just then. His shirt had landed in the puddle of tea that had been spilled; he might actually care about that later.

 

Christ, Sherlock was beautiful. John probably said as much out loud, he had no idea, sometimes that happened around Sherlock. He’d always had that effect on John, rendering him stunned. Being inches from his perfectly proportioned cock was no different, probably dropped his IQ significantly, if anything.

 

Getting his hands on it was paramount, so he did, clasping it round the base and giving a gentle tug up and back down. It gave a rewarding pulse right back and Sherlock banged his head against the table again, this time with a hearty moan. It felt soft to John’s callused hand, somehow softer than the usual velvet over steel feel of standard cocks. John wanted to ask if Sherlock was moisturizing his prick, possibly masturbating with some kind of expensive Swiss hand cream, but the image of Sherlock masturbating at all sent John on a tangent of sexual imagery. One hand continued to carefully caress Sherlock’s erection, the other came down to unbutton his jeans and free his own erection.

 

Sherlock immediately sat up, glaring down at John. “Don’t you dare!”

 

“What!” John snapped right back, pointing Sherlock’s own prick at his face like a threat.

 

“Don’t you finish yourself until I damn well say, that’s what.”

 

John narrowed his gaze, disliking the attempt to tell him what to do with his own cock. He gave Sherlock’s a cursory glance, back up to Sherlock’s eyes, back down to his cock.

 

“John,” Sherlock drawled, the warning clear. _‘Don’t try and distract me with sex.’_

 

John had never let the opportunity to best Sherlock slip him by, and he wasn’t about to start now.  

 

In one smooth motion, he pulled Sherlock’s foreskin back and sank down onto his prick until the blunt end pushed against the back of his throat. No sound could be heard until he sucked hard on the way back up, which warranted a loud gasp from the recipient. John missed it because he’d closed his eyes, but he heard and felt Sherlock fall back down onto the table, taking a petri dish down with him as his arms splayed. John’s lips stretched into a smirk, but he let it go without comment.

 

In true Sherlock fashion, John found himself inconvenienced by the man doing whatever the hell he wanted, which was to snap his hips, thrusting his cock in and out of John’s mouth without care of choking him or appreciating John’s technique. He had to slam his right forearm down across Sherlock’s lower abdomen in an attempt to control the bastard, little good though it did.

 

He came back up with a filthy slurp. “Would you be still? I’m working here.”

 

“What? What are you doing, keep going,” Sherlock demanded.

 

John stared up the line of his flatmate’s body and waited a beat before responding. “I could leave you here on this table, go have a lovely wank by myself in my room, and never try this again. Is that what you want?”

 

Sherlock gasped. “You wouldn’t dare!”

 

“Try me,” Captain Watson answered.

 

Sherlock weighed John seriousness and apparently found it solid. His bum shifted on the table, clearly antsy. “I’m sorry, John. I’ll… do better.”

 

“You’re not sorry at all, you lying bastard. You never are.”

 

But John wasn’t a cruel man. He sunk back down, laving attention around Sherlock’s crown. Sherlock made a noise thereunto unheard, and John hummed in pleasure, chuffed that even though he was the one with a mouthful of cock, Sherlock was the one who had finally shut the hell up. Sherlock, fearful of the threat of John’s disappearance, was on his best behaviour. His hands clamped down on his thighs and stayed there, his hips didn’t as much as twitch. John found it adorable, but he knew better than to say so. Good behaviour deserved to be rewarded though.

 

Without warning, he pulled back, slipped his hands under Sherlock’s back and dead lifted him off the table. Sherlock let out a shocked cry and wrapped his limbs tightly around John’s torso. He walked them into the sitting room and deposited Sherlock into his chair with a bounce. While Sherlock was busy looking affronted, John started stripping. Sherlock’s mien melted into a decidedly more pleasant arrangement, something closer to ‘John, you’re brilliant.’

 

John, naked as the day he was born, sunk down to his knees, shoved Sherlock back against the chair, and moved to continue where he’d left off. Sherlock stopped him with a hand to his chest, and when John looked up, Sherlock pulled him forward into an intense kiss, one that left him reeling.

 

John noted, belatedly, that Sherlock’s hand fit the entirety of the back of his head, as he held John, forehead to forehead. Sherlock let out a satisfied sigh, and then moved back against the chair.

 

“Proceed,” he announced regally.

 

John tried not to let his amusement show but he could feel his cheeks shift with the effort suppressing his grin. His face probably conveyed every bit of _‘If I didn’t love you, I wouldn’t let you get away with half of the sass',_ that he felt.

 

He shifted forward again, sliding his hands under Sherlock’s thighs to heft them up and over his shoulders. Sherlock grunted at the maneuver but didn’t comment, just hooked his ankles and let John slip his hands underneath to grip his arse.

 

God but the man was gifted in that department.

 

John licked a stripe up Sherlock’s cock and, no hands, managed to get the thing back into his mouth. Sherlock went back to panting and squirming, this time his heels digging into John’s back as he pulled John closer. It was quite easy, John noted, to suck at Sherlock’s prick no hands when he was so hard his foreskin was fully retracted. Sherlock seemed to respond most when John sucked hard at the tip, so he concentrated there, only alternating to roll his tongue around it, letting his saliva pool enough to make the wettest bed to rut against. Before long Sherlock’s loud panting turned into loud groans, and then louder, urgent cries.

 

John waited until he felt Sherlock begin to swell before he chanced a questing thumb against his perineum, rubbing hard.

 

“John! John, John, John,” Sherlock cried out, gripping John’s shoulders, head, neck, everywhere he could reach as he squirmed.

 

John, for his part, just hung on, a self-satisfied smirk attempting to pull his lips away from his teeth. At that point he didn’t think Sherlock would notice if John did bite him. He sucked down Sherlock’s ejaculate when it came, letting the majority hit the back of his tongue and disappear down the back of his throat, assuming it would be a lot, considering. He wasn’t wrong. It seemed to last a full minute, shot after shot just pouring out of him. Pride lit John’s stomach knowing Sherlock likely hadn’t felt anything that good in his life.

 

When Sherlock slumped back down, boneless and whimpering, John pulled away and set Sherlock’s legs back down gently. He noted the way Sherlock’s skin stuck to the leather upholstery, and thought the chair was probably the wrong venue for their activities, but it was too late to for that now.

 

Sherlock wordlessly eyed him as he crawled up into the man’s lap, settling there. They looked at each other, both breathing hard, sweating profusely, and flushed from hairline to toes, and finally smiled.

 

“Oh, I-” Sherlock started to say as John took himself in hand, but John interrupted.

 

“Shh, just watch.”

 

Sherlock blinked up at him, before his eyes traveled down to do exactly that.

 

Having those intelligent blue-green eyes focused on him - the twist of his wrist, the steady drip of precome, the vein that ran along the left side of his cock - was all John needed. He’d been primed and ready to go from the start, but the way he just knew Sherlock was filing the information away to use later, it kicked him right in the stomach, left him breathless.

 

“Yes,” Sherlock hissed when John whimpered and then grunted rapid fire, hips stuttering as he came.

 

He gripped Sherlock by the back of the neck and pulled him forward; managing to paint Sherlock from pelvis to collarbone by the time he was done. Sherlock, throughout, watched wide-eyed and fascinated.

 

Despite the mess, John immediately gave into the desire to hug Sherlock close. Sherlock didn’t seem to mind, he simply pulled John in, wrapped his long arms around John’s shoulders and let John pant hot air into his ear. Sweat mixed everywhere they touched, but neither seemed to mind, which was a nice surprise. John had assumed Sherlock would be weary of that sort of thing, as fastidious as he was about his appearance.

 

John nuzzled the damp curls at his temple and muttered, “Sorry I lied.”

 

Sherlock snorted. “Sorry I ever implied I didn’t want you to ejaculate on my chest.”

 

A second passed before they broke out into light-hearted giggles. Giggling led to light-hearted snogging, smiles making it hard to coordinate lips, but neither was willing to stop. John didn’t think he’d ever get enough of being allowed to kiss Sherlock Holmes.

 

Eventually Sherlock pulled back, enough to look John in the eye. “Would you really have stopped?”

 

John laughed, remembering the only threat that had ever actually worked on Sherlock. “I might have done. You are an infuriating git.”

 

Sherlock frowned, a pout really. “I didn’t mean to be. That’s an entirely unfair assessment.”

 

John couldn’t help the tide of affection that welled in his chest. He tucked a few errant curls behind Sherlock’s ear and grinned.

 

“You _are_ infuriating.” He slid his hand further back and gripped Sherlock’s curls a bit more forcefully. “But you’re also ridiculously sexy.” He lowered his head to nip at Sherlock’s neck, causing a soft inhale. “And delicious,” he muttered, moving further down. He licked a bit of his own come from Sherlock’s chest before returning to look Sherlock in the eye. “So maybe I wouldn’t have left.”

 

Sherlock trembled, barely held restraint locking him in place, as he stared John directly in the eye.

 

John knew he looked smug, couldn’t help it really. It was nice to be better at something than Sherlock for once.

 

“John,” Sherlock croaked, not bothering to clear his throat, “what does this mean? Are we… What do we…”

 

He didn’t finish but John understood. “What do we do now?” Sherlock nodded. He looked stoic but under that, wary. Not the kind that precluded a tedious trial, the kind that expected rejection. What he was really asking was _‘Are we together? Is this real? Forever kind of real?’_ John thought Sherlock was an idiot but didn’t say so. He let his smile speak for itself. _‘I’m in love with you, have been since day one. If you haven't figured that out you're more of an idiot than I thought.’_

 

“Oh,” Sherlock responded in surprise.  

 

“Yeah.” John brushed his lips softly over Sherlock’s brow and sat back again. “What we do now is: get in the shower, clean up, then crawl into your bed to make another mess. How’s that sound?”

 

Sherlock blinked up at him. “Yes.”

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> That's it folks. I know in canon John would in no way ever own his bisexuality this quickly, but I think if pilot John had nervously kept mum for like three months, this could happen in that universe. Maybe. Who knows. Let me know what you thought. I love hearing from readers!  
> And as always, feel free to drop me a line on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/artisanbloodbank)


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